


Copycat Jack

by network



Category: N/A - Fandom
Genre: literally just some shite english lit thing i wrote years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:32:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/network/pseuds/network
Summary: That night, another died.





	Copycat Jack

**Author's Note:**

> this is legit just some crap thing i wrote for an english lit assignment years ago that i thought id stick on here

10th September, 1888

It had been a cold night; bitter air carried harsh rainfall that whipped against his uncovered cheeks, howling winds crashing, twisting the skirt of his trench coat around him. Frostbitten, calloused, pale hands were pushed into lukewarm pockets as a desperate attempt to salvage some body heat against the fierce weather. A newspaper - now slightly dampened, despite the protection of the leather coat - was held against his chest as nearly inadequate shelter from the rain. When he reached home he had peeled off the dark coat, leaving it draped over the arm of a rough, wooden, chair as he unfolded the surprisingly crisp paper, smiling down at the headline - "Jack the Ripper strikes again?"

He had been following the case since the first murder was announced back in April. Of course some had believed that the first few that the media had attributed to Jack weren't his work, but the recent ones? Even the most cynical of readers had to admit the similarities. The split throats, the removed organs, the Whitechapel centering - it all lined up, and it fascinated him. How could it not? After all, most of the population loved the idea of an execution, but this was different. It was a dangerous fascination, shown in the way he poured over every detail of the scene that the paper could get away with publishing. It was a sort of infatuation, an idolizing of someone who should never be looked up to. And, most of all, it was the first steps down a road with nary a good outcome.

 

15th December, 1988

Jack had been silent for months.

It was unnerving for him, at bare minimum - the implications it carried were certainly grim. He'd never waited this long, never left the world hanging on the next gruesome death, never left his infamy to rot away. Something was seriously wrong, and he didn't know what to think. Jack couldn't have been arrested - no. He'd never mess up like that - he was too precise, too skilled. Besides, the police would've certainly published a statement of some kind - no matter how incompetent they may be, they'd never miss the chance to flaunt their latest catch. Could he have been killed during an attack? Of course not! Which mortal could dare even dream to be the one to stop Jack's rule? None could even comprehend him! What if he'd left? Why would he? It wasn't like anyone on his case had ever come close to finding even a faint trail to Jack. So where was he? Was he trying to punish him? Why? What had he done wrong? Had he missed a detail, a clue? What is he never came back? How long could he survive like this, alone, without the gruesome fuel of another article, another crime scene, another gutted corpse to search for any hint hidden between the lines of taunting notes naming himself?

How long until he finally broke?

 

20th December, 1988

Jack still hadn't spoken.

He didn't know what to think. Jack wouldn't leave him hanging for this long, would he? No matter what he'd done, no possible crime could be worth this punishment. If Jack really was gone,what could he do now? He couldn't just leave Jack's legacy to rot, could he? No. No, he couldn't. Jack had done too much for him, and now it was time to repay the favour. The media had proven to him time and time again that any Whitechapel murder would be linked to Jack, so that'd be how he'd proceed. He had nowhere near the level of Jack's skill, timing, artistry, but he could certainly try. It'd be new, but not entirely foreign, and a sick little smile had crept up onto his face at the thought.

That night, another died.


End file.
